Normal day in the African sun.
The lions roar. The antelopes run.
Mothers take care of their young ones.
Fathers afield raising good yields.
Sons and daughters matching their feet.
Then like rain uncalled for and scorching heat,
A tramp, foot stamp and rush of feet.
The guns, they roared in every street
Loud was their crude, uproarious din.
Commanding heart and life and limb.
Like straw tossed out, our fallen kin
Lay strewn between the barns and kiln.
Between the fields and home’s wide grin.
The rat tat tat ended our grins.
Into the hills, we fled. we hid.
Pushed out, pursued and pierced with pains
Lost homes, loved ones we’ll never see.
Sorrows as keen as knife on skin.
Tears like rivers. Hurts so deep.
Blood bringing the earth to tears.
A life without its true moorings. -Seun
Lay in my field while I yield the substance that makes the tree wither.
Can the sins of the land be forgiven?
Innocent souls caged behind rolls of irons sold in form of money gold.
While the bad good men are trolling with mere men as their shield. Hiding their sins in Holy constitution, giving the mass a communication yet the feedback received are lies wrapped up in manifestos.
Fela is right! Sorrow, tears and blood is what is left. The just are not given justice. The supreme reign higher than the court and higher than the law. We were taught in classrooms that no one is above the law. But outside the room we observe and realize the rich interprets the law to suit their suit, while the poor follow the rules blindly, hoping for God to take control.
Sincerely, if we all had fingers in the green white green house, we’d certainly satisfy our desires before remembering the land that suffers. So I won’t judge, neither would I bear a grudge.
The jokes laid upon the souls in the prison system. Treated with fierce ease. Fierceness is unease. Torture wears black and white in cells. Feet are forced to admit to crime scenes they never trod.
The pen is mightier than the sword. The sword can kill but the pen buries the pill and pages the bills. The only way to speak out, is to write out what is right.
The pen can put an end to sorrow if we ink joys of tomorrow.
The pen can riddle tears but the sword will leave us in fears. I choose the pen. Fortunately, the pen chose me first. – Rachel Charles
In the heat of crossfire trapped.
Derobed of grace and honour
Ravaged with pain and brute lust
Darkness you wished descended
With a blanket concealing your shame
Your nakedness brought to the glare
But the sun stood still above
Indifferent. Watching the dark deeds of men,
Their boots of savagery and steel barrels of death
Making gods out of earthly scums
Pronouncing life and deaths
As though Divine and Ordained.
Caught between the heat of animosities
Angel fallen and trampled to the dirt,
Pinioned with pain and sorrow
Ceaseless tears cascading from eyes sore
Seeing her Lord taken and cut short in his prime
The fruit of her womb scattered in angry wind
Abode ablaze and memories of it only in smoke.
The past was cruel and harsh
The present gives an embrace yet suffocating
The future yet decided a temper to adopt.
Who shall hear her cries?
Who shall avenge her plight?
Who shall bring up her case before the men of light?
Who shall clean up her wounds and heal her scars?
Who shall give her back her wings
And restore her to glory and honour?
Who shall make null
The memories of the hurtful past?
The regular trademark of war. Pain that slit tongues. Leaves that fall off the hearts of broken trees irked by the flower of loss.
Syringe that pierces deeper than betrayal. A moment when pride drowns in the murky muddy waters of torture, the kind that leaves pain painless.
A body wash. Each drop burns a memory. Each drop, a sheet written of past, present, and future reincarnations. Each drop, a page of untold stories, unwritten passages, revisited streets of broken lamps and happy grief. Each drop, a message sent. Each drop, emotion rent. Each drop, a repaired dent.
The color of life. The water of death in the end. On this water sails such stories… Leon
Tears can’t undo what has been done,
But it’s a sum of truth, deceitful lips can’t speak.
Sorrow, one less laughter and it’s cloudy.
Blood. Tastes like victory lost before the battle started. Hypermind